That well-discovered country, from whose bourn
The van so oft removes,—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear this foreign trash
Than walk to Bow-street, ’twixt two New Police!
Thus Jardine does make cowards of us all;
And thus our stock in trade of resolution
Goes oozing out at his most dreaded name;
And all our plans and projects, in a moment,
From great regard for it are all my eye,
And, what’s more—Betty Martin.